


Raglan Road

by onceuponanobsessedfan



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Actors, Angst, Boys In Love, Celebrities, Celebrity Crush, Children, Comfort/Angst, Divorce, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Drama & Romance, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gay, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Humor, Ireland, London, Love, M/M, Making Out, RPF, Requited Love, Romance, Sex and Chocolate, Single Parents, Snogging, Welsh Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5473490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponanobsessedfan/pseuds/onceuponanobsessedfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A semi-sequel to "The Assistant." Andrew Scott is looking to settle down, and a chocolatier in Highgate may have just what he's looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raglan Road

**Author's Note:**

> As stated, this is a semi-sequel to "The Assistant." If you haven't read it, don't worry, you won't be confused. (though you should read it anyway because it's fun!) This is a fictional story of a fictionalized version of Andrew Scott and other real-life people. I have nothing but the utmost respect for the actors, and anything that comes across as negative is completely unintentional. Please comment/kudos! I love my readers!

The roar of the crowd did nothing to drown out Andrew’s jack-hammering heart. He took a bow with the rest of his cast mates, the stage lights blinding him in the tiny Eloise Theater in downtown London.  Andrew knew not to take the audience’s applause as any kind of praise—the show was utter shit. It was shit from the get-go, not because of his cast mates or any poor decisions by the director, but because of his own shortcomings as an actor.

“Mate,” his friend Peter said hours before curtain call. “It’s all in your head.”

Peter had been kind enough to buy Andrew a pint before the show to ease his friend’s nerves. Come to think of it, perhaps it was that pint in the first place that buggered everything up.

“It’s different this time,” Andrew had said, rubbing his temple. “It’s doesn’t _feel_ right. I feel like I showed up to rehearsal the first day and everyone forgot to tell me I wasn’t actually cast.”

Peter had rolled his eyes. He was a butch queen with a flair for drama, though not in the sense that Andrew had. Peter’s choice of drama was more of the wrist-flicking, hair tossing type that often got out gay men cast in stereotypical roles. But despite his long hair and finger-snapping, Peter was anything but a stereotype.

“Bloody fucking cunt, pass the buggery ball!” Peter had yelled at the television by the bar. Man United had been losing to Norwich all night and Peter was about to have an aneurism.

Andrew had downed the rest of his Guinness and tugged on his shirt collar. Peter’s reassurance had done nothing to help his pre-show jitters.

Stage fright never really went away for most actors, and if anyone said anything different, Andrew was the first to say that they were lying.  Even at his best shows, ones he felt the utmost confident in, were torture before and during. This one at the Eloise was no exception.

As the curtain finally closed, Andrew loosened his character’s tie and blew out a sigh. He felt like he hadn’t breathed since the house lights went up nearly three hours ago.

“Good show, love,” his cast mate, Anna, said.

“Thanks, darling,” Andrew said. He snaked through the rest of the actors to the backstage, found a secluded corner by the fly system and buried his hands in his face.

_Shite, shite_ , he thought to himself. _Utter shite_.

The play itself was quite new—a mid-sized production set in 1980s French Canada—but Andrew knew that its infancy was no excuse for his mistakes. He felt that his accent was off and his delivery of lines was too slow. The director had egged him about his mannerisms, not because Andrew was gay, but because he was “acting like a Frenchman instead of a French _Canadian_ ,” and there was a bloody difference, damn it.  He could see the headline in the arts section of the _Times_ now: **Andrew Scott Ruins Otherwise Smashing Play; Actor Forced to Retire.**

“Oi,” a familiar voice called. “What’re you doing here, mate?”

It was his understudy, Michael. Andrew sighed when he saw the man and shook his head.

“I cocked it up, did I?” he said.

“What? No!”

“I did,” Andrew groaned. “I could feel the audience checking their watches.”

Michael rolled his eyes in a similar way Peter had. Andrew knew this man should have taken the part—he was taller, handsomer, could nail a French-Canadian dialect better than the rest, and he looked better in the sport coat of the character.

“You’re out of your mind,” Michael said. “You, of all people, don’t have to worry ab—”

Andrew put up a hand and shook his head. “No, no, I’m not fishing for compliments, honest.” He sighed in frustration. “Don’t ever have that feeling that . . . I dunno, something’s missing? Like you’re not giving your full self to the character?”

Michael put a reassuring hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “You were brilliant,” he said. “Now stop sulking and come to McMillan’s for the cast party.”

Andrew scrunched his face. The last thing he wanted to do was pretend to be cheerful at a party, much less a party where he had to go stag. Most of the cast and crew had wives and husbands and children. Michael, himself, was married with a baby on the way. He would feel more alone with them than by himself in his flat.

“Nah, I think I’ll go home,” Andrew said.

“Not bloody likely.” Michael swung his arm around Andrew’s shoulder and practically dragged him out of the theater.

They changed out of their costumes, wiped their makeup off, and shared a cab to the pub. The director, Joselyn, ordered a round of drinks for everyone. Andrew sat in a lone corner, licking his wounds, trying not to think about his rubbish performance.

Maybe it was the weather that made him so moody. Not that it didn’t rain often in London, but this autumn, it was worse than usual. Mud followed people wherever they went and gents walked around as doleful and pale as wet bread. The sidewalks were replaced with puddles the size of Buicks and the sky reminded him of when he was ten and accidentally saw his grandad’s grey, wrinkly bum after a bath.

Andrew looked around the pub as his cast mates chatted and laughed and snuggled with their dates. The weather in London was hard enough to handle without someone else to complain about it with. He hadn’t had a boyfriend—much less a well-needed fuck—in months. Work consumed his time, from this film to that play to this TV spot, and most out blokes he met were more of Peter’s type, anyway—screaming queens with too much product in their hair. Not that Andrew had any type of prejudice against his femme brethren. He played a few in his time as an actor and accepted that, despite the stereotype, they were just as important to the cause. But Andrew’s type was more of the relaxed, boy-next-door man who knew a bit about the world. Maybe it was because he was pushing forty, but the party scene was becoming less and less appealing to him these days.

“Thinking of settling down, Martha?” Peter had teased him.

This was before Andrew had been cast in the play and after he had finished filming a small part with Christopher Nolan. He and Peter were having lunch at a riverside café in Churchhill Gardens. When Peter had suggested going out with a few eligible men to some twink club on Old Compton, Andrew groaned and made a face.

“I’m too old for that shite,” he had said. “And besides, you know that’s not my type.”

“No, I don’t,” Peter had argued. “What _is_ your type?”

Andrew had thought a lot about Peter’s question since their lunch. He couldn’t give a proper answer right away, but now that he was in his little corner of the pub, he surveyed the men around him to get an idea of what he was looking for.

The man serving drinks at the bar was a nice height, but Andrew wasn’t terribly fond of eyebrow piercings.  5/10.

There was another gentleman dancing with his cast mate, Angela, but he had two left feet and belched right in her face. 4/10.

Another man in a booth surrounded by women was very handsome with a killer smile, but Andrew could hear him telling racist jokes from across the pub. -100/10.

Andrew finished his scotch, threw on his coat, and stepped out in the back of the pub for a cigarette. Awnings caught the rain above him and emptied it out into the alley. There was a man and a woman having a puff on white plastic lawn furniture, both of them drunk and staring at each other lustfully.

Andrew didn’t anticipate anyone bothering him, they almost never did, except when a show let out or there was paparazzi at the airport. He didn’t have the handsome cheekbones of his mate, Benedict Cumberbatch, or the muscles of Tom Hardy to warrant anyone screaming in his face and demanding an autograph. Those who _did_ recognize him were at least sweet and polite about it. But here at McMillan’s, running into a rabid fan was about as likely as a meteorite falling on his head.

Andrew took a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit up. The smooth, hot smoke that engulfed his throat and lungs eased his anxiety about the disastrous play. He got halfway down the stick when a man burst onto the patio with a cell phone pressed to his ear and his jacket half on.

“Listen to me, Kate . . . No, just listen! You told me you wanted the weekend, then changed your mind. Now you’re changing it back again?”

Andrew side-eyed the man without trying to be obvious. He was a slim bloke with a Welsh accent, a hair taller than Andrew, and a mop of curly brown hair on his head. His brown eyes darted around the patio as he paced, a woman yelling on the other end of the mobile. The drunk couple got up and went back into the bar, leaving Andrew alone with the man.

“That’s none of your bloody business, Kate,” the man said. He glanced at Andrew and met his eyes. Andrew looked away quickly and continued puffing on his cigarette. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, then,” the man sighed into the phone. “I can’t come and get her now, I’m in London.”

A beat of silence, then more unintelligible yelling from the woman on the phone. She was so loud, the poor man had to pull the phone way from his ear. “Fine,” he said. “Tell her I’ll be there in the morning. But you can’t do stuff like this anymore, Kate, we had—”

The man stopped pacing and looked at his phone. He muttered under his breath and stuffed it in his back pocket. Whoever he had been talking with had obviously hung up on him. The man put his coat on the rest of the way and looked at Andrew.

“Spare a fag?” he asked.

Andrew blinked. He was worried for a moment that he was being chastised for listening in on his conversation, but then reached in his pocket and pulled out another cigarette. He handed it to the curly-haired gentleman and gave him a light from his Zippo. The man took a long, savory drag and exhaled smoothly, practically sighing.

“Thank you,” he said.

Andrew smiled politely. “Rough night?”

The man shook his head and took another drag. “The bloody worst.” He sighed, his face softening. “I’m sorry about all that. It’s just my—”

“It’s all right, you don’t have to explain,” Andrew said. He glanced at the stranger’s left hand. No wedding ring. Could have been a girlfriend. Could also have been a sister or sloshed friend. Andrew prayed it wasn’t a boyfriend with an unusual name.

“You look cross, as well,” the man said. “Bad night for us villains, eh?”

Andrew laughed. “The bloody worst.”

The man smiled and flicked the ashes from his cigarette. “You’re Irish,” he said. “What part?”

Andrew ducked his head, roses blossoming on his cheeks. He was pleased that this stranger didn’t recognize him. “Dublin. London nowadays.” He peered at the man. “Let me guess . . . Wrexham?”

The man smiled and shook his head. “Cardiff.”

“Oh.” Andrew shook his head and rolled his eyes to the heavens. “I _used_ to have an ear for accents,” he said, thinking bitterly about his French-Canadian disaster.

The man chuckled. Andrew thought he noticed the man sizing him up—from his Westwood shoes to his denim slacks, all the way to his lips. But just as quickly as the thought came, Andrew shook it off. The language of gay men versus straight men was a thin grey one, and Andrew wasn’t about to embarrass himself on the off chance this bloke was eye-fucking him. No matter how gorgeous he was.

The pair continued smoking in silence. The noise from inside the pub was getting rowdy and Andrew dreaded going in.

“I like your coat,” the man said.

Andrew looked at the stranger and felt his heart skip a beat. Jack-fucking-pot. No straight man would ever compliment his coat, unless . . .

“Are you a tailor?” Andrew asked, eyes glued to the ground.

He caught the man smiling coyly. Those were definitely fuck-me eyes. “No, I’m not a tailor,” the stranger said. “Are you?”

Andrew’s eyes met his smoking partner’s. He chuckled and shook his head. “No, darling, I’m not.” His palms were slick with sweat. If that “darling” wasn’t a hint to end all hints, then Andrew would retreat to a nunnery and never touch another man again.

Thankfully, the stranger caught on.

He flicked his cigarette away, took Andrew’s head in his hands, and kissed him. Andrew was shocked at first, his body tensing as the man pressed him against the brick building. It wasn’t like he had never met a forward man in his life, but usually he didn’t snog until at least a few drinks and playful touches. This was different. In a very, very good way.

Andrew relaxed his body and dropped his cigarette as the man slipped his tongue between his lips. He raked his fingers into Andrew’s hair and kissed him with just the right amount of softness and intensity. Andrew put his hands on the stranger’s hips from under the coat, moving his hands around the small of his back.

They kissed without interruption, without time or space or even God in heaven as a witness. Despite its surprise, it was the most honest kiss Andrew had ever been given. There was no expectation of anything else, no fronting or urgency to move forward to more intimate acts. They parted for a millisecond to breathe, then dove right back in. In addition to the cigarette Andrew had given him, he could taste chocolate and red wine on the man’s tongue, a sensual combination that sent electricity up his spine.

Andrew lowered his hand along the man’s buttocks, then jumped as it vibrated. The man jerked away from him. “Shit.” He turned away and reached in his back pocket for his phone.

Andrew panted as he leaned against the building. The intensity and suddenness of the kiss nearly knocked him off his feet, but now that they were back in reality, he worried about someone possibly seeing them.

“Kate, please—” The man said into the phone. He rubbed his forehead and gave an apologetic look to Andrew. Whether he was apologizing for the kiss or the phone call, Andrew didn’t want to know.

The man sighed, covered the speaker of his phone with his hand, and said to Andrew, “I-I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . I’m sorry.” He darted back into the pub and Andrew followed, bewildered.

The bar was bursting at the seams with drunken, rowdy guests. Most of Andrew’s cast mates had gone. “Wait, wait!” Andrew called.

He squeezed his way through the crowd trying to catch up, but the man was too fast. Andrew accidentally bumped into a waitress carrying a tray of shots and apologized profusely as they went tumbling to the floor. He knelt to help her clean them up, cussing at himself for his stupidity. When he looked up, the man with curly hair was gone, having darted out the door with his phone still pressed to his ear.

Andrew stood stared ahead, hoping the man would turn right back around and come inside. They needed a proper goodbye after a kiss like that—an exchange of phone numbers or email or something to keep in touch. But the stranger was gone. All Andrew was left with was the taste of chocolate on his tongue and vodka shots soaking his Westwood shoes.


End file.
